


Not with a Snore, but with a Snuffle

by missmichellebelle



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Brief Mentions of Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Cotton Candy Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being sick is not <i>adorable</i>, it’s disgusting and weak (and Mickey is sure to tell Ian this, and Ian just grumbles at him from inside swathes of fabric).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not with a Snore, but with a Snuffle

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I deal with my sister snoring and disrupting my sleep by head canoning Gallavich and then turning the head canon into fic. Hurray. \o/

The first time Ian gets sick is… An experience.

Not that it’s the first time he’s ever gotten sick in his fucking life (probably—seems likely, at least), it’s just the first time that Mickey’s seen him sick. It’s the first time Mickey’s been around and actually given a shit. And it’s not like when Ian is drunk, or high, or hungover. Mickey’s been there for that. He’s been there when Ian’s been strung out on a cocktail of god-knows-what, and he’s been there for the manic and for the depressive. He's just never been around for the runny nose, and the sore throat, and the hoarse, congested voice.

Mickey had kind of just assumed that Ian didn’t _get_ sick, like the fucking superhuman freak that he is.

It’s pathetic, and kind of sad. Like some malnourished puppy in a storefront window who is inexplicably wet. Not that Mickey has a soft spot for puppies or some shit. Or that he thinks Ian is endearing with his sleep-heavy eyes and red nose and the bed head he’s too tired and sick to deal with, all rolled up in Mickey’s comforter like some sort of ginger burrito.

Not at all.

Being sick is not _adorable_ , it’s disgusting and weak (and Mickey is sure to tell Ian this, and Ian just grumbles at him from inside swathes of fabric).

It’s almost uncomfortably reminiscent of the way Ian gets when he dips down, when he gets so slow that he’s pressed hands-and-knees to bedrock, except that Ian doesn’t just lay there like a normal sick person—he drags himself around the house like some snotty ghost, groaning and bitching and being an overall pain-in-Mickey’s-ass. To the point where Svetlana is hissing and cursing at him in Russian, and Mickey figures it has something to do with the fucking baby and germs from the intermingled English.

Suddenly, Ian needs to be fucking babysat, because he won’t stay in Mickey’s room (their room, he guesses, or something, fuck if he knows) unless someone stays with him—to be more specific, unless _Mickey_ stays with him. Because he’d tried to shaft the responsibility to Mandy so he could fucking work, but apparently his stupid plague-ridden boyfriend had ended up wandering out onto the steps in some fever-induced stupor.

“You’re such a needy fucker,” Mickey had murmured as Ian curled up on his chest, radiating heat like a fucking forest fire but still wrapped up in that stupid blanket. But Ian was asleep, and as aggravated as Mickey was, his face softened and he ran his fingers through Ian’s messy, sweat-damp hair, like maybe that would make him better.

Because Ian is annoying as fuck when he’s sick, and… Well, Mickey doesn’t want him to be sick. Doesn’t like it.

He also doesn’t like the way Ian suddenly snores when he sleeps.

Like, whatever, he gets it. Stuffy nose means snoring. Doesn’t mean he has to fucking like it, or put up with it.

It’s not the worst snoring Mickey’s ever heard—nothing near as thunderous and rumbling as the sound that comes out of his dad when he’s passed out so hard that he could very well be dead (snoring’s how they always knew he was alive). Mickey grew up to that sound, and found a weird comfort in it. Long as his dad kept snoring, none of them had anything to worry about.

But Mickey could always drown it out with his bedroom door and a layer of music. Could still find the quiet when he needed it to get some fucking shut-eye.

There’s no escaping from the raspy, nasal noises that wheeze out of Ian where he’s wrapped around Mickey’s torso. The only time it ever stops is when Ian’s not sleeping (and he breathes heavily through his mouth, panting like an over-heated dog, clinging to Mickey’s shirt and whimpering about how horrible he feels), but it’s not like Mickey can just wake him up whenever the fuck he starts snoring.

Not on purpose.

One night, Mickey jerks at one obnoxiously loud snore and ends up kicking Ian in the shin—waking him up in a sputtering mass of confusion that has him twisting around in the mess of already contorted sheets, seeming to somehow lose Mickey in them before deciding he’s _too hot_ and kicking the comforter off of the bed.

Ian hums out a soft, satisfied, “Mickey,” as he finds him and twines himself around Mickey’s body again, and Mickey realizes that it’s quiet. Perfectly, blissfully quiet. And he revels in the knowledge that, even when sick, Ian needs time to be able to fall asleep (only passes out when he’s over plied with alcohol or drugs), and drifts off before Ian has the chance to start snoring again.

When he wakes up, his shirt has a wet spot on it from where Ian drooled, and his boyfriend is shuddering violently since he _kicked the fucking blanket off the bed_ , but Mickey is well-rested.

That night, he’s an asshole and kicks Ian again—only this time on purpose. But apparently Mickey puts a lot more force in his conscious actions than his knee-jerk ones, because Ian full on wakes up with a disgruntled, “ _Fuck_ , Mick.”

Followed immediately with a, “Mickey… Mickey… Mickey,” as he shakes Mickey (who is awake, but Ian thinks he’s asleep) until Mickey finally opens his eyes and looks at him. “Will you get me water?” Stupid fucking sick puppy eyes. Stupid fucking Ian.

And that foils the whole “accidentally kicking Ian awake” tactic pretty quickly.

The snoring isn’t so bad the night after that, Ian finally on the fucking mend, but Mickey still lays in bed, glaring at the ceiling, and seriously contemplating the pros and cons of muffling the ginger with a pillow. It sounds like a solid plan, except that every time Mickey looks at Ian’s stupid fucking sleepy face, he can’t go through with it.

This whole _caring about people he’s not related to_ shit sucks balls.

(And Mickey’s aggravated and tired, so it’s a lot easier to forget all the reasons being with Ian _isn’t_ utter bullshit).

There’s a stack of books by Mickey’s “side” of the bed (not that him and Ian have sides—Mickey falls asleep wherever the fuck he wants to fall asleep, it just so happens he falls asleep on the right side a lot), and he eyes it contemplatively, wondering if he can reach it from where he is without waking Ian up _too_ much.

He reaches out for it, and then very purposefully tips the book off the top. It lands on the floor with a loud _thud_ , and Mickey slams his eyes shut as it does exactly what he’d been hoping—startles Ian enough that he stops snoring, but not enough to wake him up. He’s twisted enough onto his side that Ian has to realign himself again, sealing his body heat along Mickey’s back and holding onto him tightly, and Mickey figures it’s a win-win.

Ian likes to be held more than hold when he’s sick, and Mickey had kind of missed it.

(Okay, so he fucking _had_ —Ian’s unfortunately given him a new appreciation for spooning that he will take to his fucking grave.)

But apparently, the book thing is another one-trick pony.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ian murmurs when he wakes up, and he’s clinging to Mickey’s shirt, eyes closed, his voice still congested but not nearly as bad as it had been.

“The fuck you talking about?” Mickey asks, voice annoyed and exhausted. It’s kind of surprising he’s tired at all, considering all he’s done the past few days is lay in bed with a sick person and take care of him and shit—taking care of Ian when he’s sick might as well be a full-time job, for how much fucking work it is. And all Mickey gets paid in is _snoring_.

(And the way Ian clings to him at night, like he _needs_ Mickey).

“You keep waking me up on purpose.” Ian’s voice sounds less sleepy and more alert, and Mickey’s body goes rigid with surprise in a way he can’t shrug off or pretend didn’t happen when Ian is pressed against him head-to-toe. “Have I been snoring?”

Mickey hesitates, knowing that answering will be confirming Ian’s suspicion (even if it is fucking true), and that not answering… Will be confirmation enough anyway.

“…yeah,” Mickey responds, voice rough. “Can’t sleep.” He rubs his hand over his face and feels like a fucking jerk.

“Sorry,” Ian mumbles, pressing his face into Mickey’s chest and muffling his words, and Mickey just feels like _more_ of a jerk. Like it’s Ian’s fucking fault. Mickey knows it’s not. He’s opening his mouth to say something, when Ian goes, “You snore.”

And Mickey bristles.

“Like fuck I do.” He does _not_ fucking snore.

“Not like…” Ian’s face scrunches—Mickey can feel the twitch of Ian’s nose through his t-shirt. “It’s more like snuffling.”

“I snuffle?” Mickey asks, voice dry and unamused, and Ian just hums confirmation against his chest. Like fuck he does.

“Used to think it was annoying,” Ian continues, his voice getting heavier as he gets closer to sleep again. “Kind of think it’s cute now.” Mickey doesn’t have to see the smile to know it’s there.

Mickey scoffs. He’s still not convinced that he snores (and fuck whatever word Ian uses for it, Mickey will never admit to doing something like _snuffling_. What kind of fucking word is that?).

“Then…” Ian yawns, nuzzling more into Mickey’s chest, and Mickey’s hand goes reflexively to the back of Ian’s neck, fingers brushing through the short hairs at the nape. “Figured out you don’t do it if you’re on your side.”

Mickey blinks in surprise.

“That right?”

And Ian just hums again.

“Wait for you to fall asleep, ‘kay?” Ian mumbles, and Mickey’s heart clenches in a way that’s somehow painful and _not_ at the same time. Ian kind of just does that to him.

Mickey pulls Ian closer, presses his mouth to the top of Ian’s head, and waits for the rumbles in Ian’s chest to slow and even out.

“Still awake?” Ian asks after a few minutes, and Mickey just grins into Ian’s hair. “Dumb ass,” Ian says with no bite.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/99170018770/not-with-a-snore-but-with-a-snuffle)


End file.
